


He Can't Change For Love- zeX

by officialmcrtrash, partypo1son



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialmcrtrash/pseuds/officialmcrtrash, https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypo1son/pseuds/partypo1son
Summary: Gerard is undeserving of anything good the world has to offer. He meets someone that makes him believe otherwise.





	1. Calm Before The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Can't Change for Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7063810) by [partypo1son](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypo1son/pseuds/partypo1son). 



The grey covers caress me in the dwindling warmth of sleep. A full five hours, impressive for me. As soon as I gain a somewhat sense of consciousness I hear in the back of my mind that voice that has been my best friend for the past five years.

  
"Wake up, fatass. Time to shine."

  
I groan and roll out of my bed, savouring the warmth and the ignorance of sleep for one last moment. My alarm goes off, blaring what sounds like words almost saying "GET. YOUR. ASS. DOWN. STAIRS." I always wake before my alarm can catch me sleeping, a habit I know I could break with some heavy sleeping pills but I know I don't deserve them.

  
I swing my ginormous legs over the side of my bed and stand up, expecting the ground to become cosy with me soon and bracing myself for it. My eyes rush with the familiar black haze and gravity tries to knock me off my feet, but I can fend it off. I come out of the haze and make my way to my parent's bathroom. Tip-toeing past their bed, I make it there and silently close the door behind me. I strip down and step on the digital scale on the fancy marble floor.

  
98.4 pounds, the scale drawls to me, enticing me with its allure. half of a pound down from yesterday, not bad. I put my clothes back on my body, my fat rolls jiggling as I clumsily hop around on the floor, trying to get my pants on. Once I am assembled, I turn off the light and make my way out. I think I'm in the clear when I hear my father's groggy voice behind me

  
"Gerard, what's your excuse today?"

  
"I needed a bar of soap."

  
"I'm sure you did," he replies as he rolls over and continues sleeping. I don't blame him, after all, it is four thirty in the morning.

  
Already in my running attire, I make my way down the stairs to see my worn-out running shoes sitting on the second-to-last step, beckoning me. Within a few moments, I am downstairs, in my basement, with my old friend the treadmill, given to me as a gift when I was thirteen when my parents started investing in my "health kick." What a blissful time, I recall. I remember first trying it out and not being able to even get through a mile without getting winded, my fat bouncing up and down as I slammed my feet, step after step, on the treadmill. Those were the days.

  
I press the button that reads "9" and begins my trek. It is quite boring, as I don't allow myself to listen to music or watch the television, but that is what I deserve for taking up so much space on this planet. I drone on and on, counting out the steps to make the ordeal all the more torturous. "9997, 9998, 9999, 10000," I fire on and finally allow myself to look down at the timer on the treadmill panel. Right around there, but I go five more minutes as punishment for looking at the timer before I reached the hour mark.

  
I make my way back up the seemingly never-ending stairs, and the black spots make a comeback. I hold on to the railing for a moment to make sure that I don't fall. Fall equals faint, faint equals hospital, hospital equals food, food equals loss of control. The little black dots in my eyes fade, and I continue my way up the stairs.

  
The frigid water feels like knives against my back, something I have never quite gotten used to. Remember, this is what you deserve. I lather the soap onto my body gingerly, making sure to get the cuts on my arms and wrists, making sure they are clean, yet fresh and singing. After exactly three minutes of just standing under the freezing water, I turn the knob to shut it off. I climb out of the shower in my own bathroom and towel dry my hair and body. I step out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around my chest down to my legs so that I wouldn't expose myself, even though my parents would be asleep for another hour or so.

  
Unwrapping the towel from my body, I examine the horrid thing I see in the mirror. I wrap my fingers around my thighs sighing in relief that I can still touch my middle fingers and thumbs, just like last night and yesterday afternoon and yesterday morning and all of those times that I went to the bathroom to do jumping jacks bodycheck. Good. I count my ribs and feel my collarbones, not nearly as prominent as I would like. Sighing, I tear my eyes away from the monster that I see in the mirror.

  
It is nearly summer, yet I dress in the heavier clothing that the school uniform shop has to offer. I would wish upon no one the terrible misfortune that is the sight of my grotesque, obese body. I don't even bother to look at my hair, I know it looks like shit anyways. My journal sits on the nightstand right next to my bed, and out of habit I decide to check what it is that I will allow myself to eat for breakfast, yet I have it ingrained in my mind, 10 strawberries (40).

  
I make my way down the staircase, and I decide that I need to walk up and down it five more times before I allow myself to eat. My bones ache as I make my way up and down, up and down. I relish in this feeling, it means that my body is breaking down from inside out. Finishing my reps, I take the longest route around my house to get to the kitchen. An additional 17 steps to burn off the calories that I need to peel off my body like old wallpaper.

  
My hand grips around the stainless steel refrigerator, void of pictures of family barbecues and cousins that I've last seen five years ago. I slowly grab the carton of strawberries, my allowance for the week. I count out ten and rinse them for one minute. I start the process of cutting the strawberries in halves one by one, taking as slowly as I can, then grab a small white bowl from the cabinet. Taking the halves and placing them in the bowl, I walk to the cutlery drawer and grab the smallest silver fork in it. I then walk my way to the counter and set the bowl down on the island, and take a seat.

  
I pick up the tiny fork and spear a strawberry halve and raise it to my mouth, and I start chewing. I don't allow myself to think about how good and sweet the strawberries taste, that is forbidden. I chew the halve precisely twenty times so that it passes through my system easily. I want to be squeaky clean on the inside as if I were to take all of the emotions inside of me and leave a clean, hollow shell. I do this with the next half, and the next until soon all that is left of the strawberries are the sweet red stain on the porcelain bowl. It looks like blood on a pure white surface, a scene I am ever so familiar with.

  
It took precisely twenty-six minutes to eat the strawberries, and now it is around six-thirty, the time when most of my classmates are just waking up. I slide out of my chair and walk around the island to get to the sink. I wash off my bowl and then walk to the cabinet to retrieve a box of cornflakes. I pour a few into the bowl, put the cereal back, then grab the milk out of the fridge. After splashing a small amount of milk into the bowl, I set it into the sink. For the finishing touch, I take a spoon out of the drawer and place it into the bowl.

  
Though I have been doing this every morning for a year, I am sure my parents have caught on to the fact that I "go through" the small box once per month. They don't seem to know what to do with this knowledge.

  
The journey back up the stairs is a quicker one now, I know my father has gotten into the shower as I heard the water running mid-chew. I pass my little brother Mikey's room and stop to stare at him for a moment. He seems so peaceful and content. I snap out of my fantasy and tip-toe to my room, grab my backpack, make my way back downstairs, and head out the door to begin my two-mile walk to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading this, it is my first fic! I have had it in mind for so long and it is based off of my own experiences with anorexia and hospitalization. Please let me know if you like it and if you would like me to update consistently ;)  
> -partypo1son


	2. A Day In The Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Gerard, a perfectionistic anorexic.

A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead as I march my way through the school parking lot. I attend a snotty, pretentious parochial school called Belleville Brothers of Christianity. Trust me, it is as horrible as it sounds.

  
I climb up the stairs, seeing stars once more, and slink through the wide, open doors of the school. The bathroom is right near the entrance, so I make a beeline there to do some jumping jacks before I must sit on my ass all day. I make my way to the corner of the bathroom, in between the urinals and the stalls, and start my repetitions of jumping jacks until I reach five-hundred.

  
After I finished, I noticed I was already decently sweaty on my forehead again. The paper towel dispenser was right next to the mirror, so that meant I would have to see my reflection in it in order to acquire a towel. I brace myself for the grotesque creature that stares back at me.

  
I see a shell of lard, fat lumps rolling over in my sweater. I lift up said sweater to check on my torso and stomach. Still fat, I think to myself. I pull down the sweater and wipe my face off one last time before exiting the bathroom.

  
The warning bell goes off, and I remember that I need to get to class at least thirty seconds before everyone else, or else I risk my goody-two-shoes status. The first block is… math? Math. Lately, things slip my mind, no matter how routine they are. I don’t like it. I’m usually always on-top of things. That’s what I’m known for; being the person who always does everything with precision and perfection.

  
I enter the math room, and to my relief, I am the second one there. My math teacher, Mrs Webb, is standing at her podium collecting study guides that we had to complete last week. I already had mine handed back to me, as I handed it in three days before it was due for extra credit. A nice one-hundred-and-four was written neatly in red on the pristine white paper.

  
Before I knew it, all zero of my friends were in the class. I haven't always not had friends, but they used to always offer me pizza and junk that absolutely cannot enter my body, and I guess they became sick of me just sitting in the corner and rejecting their offers.

  
Mrs Webb began the class by handing out the rest of the study guides, giving each student a “Well done!,” or a “You could have done better.” After all of the papers are distributed she makes her way to the front of the classroom and starts droning on about the final next Tuesday. I already know everything to study and understand it well, but I decide to listen anyway so that I don't offend her.  
My mind had other plans. The nagging came back again.

  
“Those strawberries were larger than the average, fatass. You should go to the bathroom and do one-hundred more jumping jacks just to make sure.”

  
I hesitated but obliged. I raised my hand and asked if I may use the restroom. She was in the middle of ranting about quadratic equations, a subject she knew I was fully capable of performing excellently in if tested on it, so she waved her hand, giving me the signal to use the bathroom.

 

I make my way down the hall to the bathroom, and do the one-hundred jumping jacks I was enlisted to do.

  
I come out of the bathroom a few moments later, thanking my parents silently for providing me with good deodorant. There are a few boys in the hallway that I hoped to pass without incident. As per usual when it comes to these situations, my hopes were shattered.

  
One large, muscular boy with a buzzcut shoved me into the locker next to me, shouting “scrawny faggot,” after me as I scuttled my way back to the classroom. “Scrawny?’’ That’s new. It used to be along the lines of “Fatass,” and “Ginormous Gerard.” I don’t know what inspired the change in expletives, but I’d rather the current insults than the latter.

  
The block ended soon enough, and soon after that was lunch. I always take this opportunity to walk laps around the school, so I head to the main changing room to retrieve my running shoes in order to do so.

  
After that was my favourite class, Nutrition and Wellness. It gave me the opportunity to meticulously count calories and fat grams and not be judged for it. Today we were handed a study guide for the final on Wednesday, which I knew I would ace with no problem. We were given the remaining half-hour to work on this packet. I started writing, and the questions were ridiculously easy. I answered half of the fifty-question packet within the thirty minutes.

  
After Nutrition and Wellness was AP U.S. History, which is too boring to even discuss. Before I knew it, I was on my walk back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a bit boring, I am trying to build up the suspense for later. Thank you to everyone for reading and giving me kudos! It is very appreciated!  
> -Party Po1son


	3. NOT A CHAPTER, JUST DISCLAIMING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short disclaimer, not mandatory reading for the plot, just ensuring I can give all due credit to the original inspiration.

Hey guys,

  
I go by zeX as not my real name, and I enjoyed a fan fiction by partypo1son, who has since stopped posting updates, I didn't know them but wanted to continue the story.  
I give full credit to the author for the first two chapters and novel idea, and all characters and relationships go to the people themselves, I have no personal or monetary gain from the creation of this publication.  
This is a work of complete fiction based on members of the band My Chemical Romance, as copyrighted as of the year 2017 by Warner Bros. Records. All people mentioned are in relation to their owners, and thus the events of this novel are not linked to any real-life occurrences, outside of purely circumstantial coincidences. I claim no ownership or relation to the band or its members.  
The following story, events, and occurrences are purely works of my own imagination after reading the work of Archive Of Our Own member partypo1son, and thus I claim no entitlement or responsibility for them. I do not ascribe these in any way to what happened in any character's lifetime nor do I claim that these events have any relation to any member of My Chemical Romance.  
This story is for entertainment purposes only, is of no relation to any members of the band My Chemical Romance, its members, or their family members, nor will it benefit these people financially or as a part of any merchandising scheme for product or music release.  
I am very grateful to the creators of the band, their families and friends, all involved in the creation of the band, and to the MCR fandom for their dedication and continuing support, especially because, without their wonderful work, this story could not exist.  
Finally, I want to bring it to everyone's attention that this book may cover such topics as mental health, suicide, death, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, anorexia, perfectionism, bulimia, self-image, self-worth issues, young relationships, and potential abuse, which may be triggering or dangerous to the mental health of some readers. I would also like to remind you that, as a work of fiction, this does not necessarily provide an accurate representation of any of these issues, nor a realistic resolution, and if you are suffering from any of these, you should seek help by speaking with a close friend or family member, or contacting a local healthcare professional or your nation's suicide line if you are in immediate danger.  
I would once again like to reiterate that I am of no financial gain from the creation of this fan fiction, that all occurrences are purely a work of imagination, and that the original setting, plot, and character ideas go to user partypo1son.

  
With thanks, zeX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys, please consider giving me a follow as I'll be updating as and when I create new chapters.


	4. Internal Homophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faggot was one of the only insults thrown at Gerard that wasn’t true. WAS.

The walk home was, as always, yet another tedious opportunity to burn more calories. Those following me saw, and took, their chance to yell such unoriginal insults such as ‘faggot’ or ‘suck-up’, combining, as I’m sure many can imagine, into an orgy of hate speech towards people unfortunate enough to proclaim their affection for a same-sex partner. With mine being a Christian school, I had heard this often enough, yet had never paid enough attention to having a partner, knowing I didn’t deserve such a privilege, let alone one of my own gender.

  
The two-mile walk came to an end, along with any thoughts about relationships; I didn’t allow myself to think of happiness all that often, knowing it was reserved for those who didn’t take up such an ungodly amount of space on this planet, so this had been a highly welcomed break.

  
The house was silent, with my baby brother Mikey likely at some sort of sporting practice, something I would love to partake in if I had any friends, for the calories burnt and fewer opportunities to be at home, with complete access to food for a binge to make me a failure again, and my parents still at work. This was true of most days, and having the house to myself either meant running on the treadmill in peace, so as not to disturb anyone with my unfit panting or mounds of fat jiggling around, or the other option being that once a week, I allowed myself to masturbate, enjoying the pleasure of time off from a strictly adhered to schedule and the chance to release any hormones to make me act irresponsibly or in a brutish manner. This was not something to be enjoyed, strictly for my sanity.

  
This was my day a week and whilst it was not something I allowed myself to enjoy, just quick movements, no porn or added extras, it was definitely a high point of my week. I would generally stare at the wall in silence, until my mind settled on some disgusting fantasy to weave myself into or a specific person, before, it had almost always been myself being used purely for another’s satisfaction, in tying with my own worthlessness, but today, I had stumbled onto the thought of a boy I barely knew, Frank, just as the final moment, and I, came.

 

‘Faggot.’ I whispered to myself.

  
Generally, I didn’t consider myself worthy of hating anyone else when I was such a worthless waste of space but when it came to myself, no insult was off limit.

  
Frank was a seventeen-year-old newcomer to my school, after being the schools mandatory ‘reform student’. He had surprisingly not been particularly popular with rich Christian teens when he showed up with illegal tattoos and setting off the fire alarms in the bathroom smoking on his first day. I hadn’t necessarily noted his existence, keeping my head down to avoid eye contact with anyone in the corridor, but he had never paid any attention to me either, smoking god-knows-what in the school closet. I guess I had liked him. I was disgusted with myself, how dare I turn him into a piece of my own fantasy? I fell to the floor, doing sit-ups for being such a selfish and horny teenager, I would no longer allow myself this weekly pleasure, resolving to run for an hour instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It made me pretty uncomfortable to write Gerard smut but as I believe it an important part of the story, I wanted to emphasise that I know this period of his life is over, even if there was never any frerard activity in reality and I mean absolutely no disrespect to his wife and family.


End file.
